I know now why people stop having sex. Ten years into what can only be called a marriage, even if it isn't "legal," and there's really no point in it anymore, is there? I can get myself off twice as efficiently (and do, constantly--I crave obliteration, oblivion, release) with half the bother. No risk of rejection, no getting all worked up only to hear H say he's tired... just fingers on the dry little button and there you go.
He doesn't want it anymore, either, I don't think. Why would he? What's new about it? Better just to go to sleep and ignore my quickened breath.
He knows I do it. A lot. I know he does. I imagine he's disgusted by me. Or maybe resentful, excluded. Or maybe relieved.
He told me once that sex with me was often so sad. Draining, he called it. Dark. "You suck all the energy out of me sometimes," he said. I wish I were different, but I'm not. I am dark. Too much has happened for me not to be.
So, easier to go to sleep and dream of... whatever it is he dreams of. Easier for me to take care of myself. Except that it's not, really.
It's just my usual depression talking. I know this isn't real. But it feels real. I told him last night that I had nothing to look forward to. Nothing except growing old--no kids, no career, nothing. That I felt cheated and powerless. That I didn't know what to do to fix things.
He asked--quite reasonably--what is therapy doing for you? Wasn't it helping? For some reason, that question made me feel really uncomfortable.
I said, "It's making it possible for me to tell you that I see nothing in my future to look forward to."
He told me that it was all in the doing and suggested I should go hang out with some Buddhists.
I hate myself when I'm like this. I really, really wish I were different. I wish I knew how to be.